


a chord in every muscle (every kiss you ever had)

by Butterfly



Series: go on as three [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Podfic Available, Polyamory, and there is definitely still some, is 2 weeks into a relationship too soon for nerdy allusions to being in love: a study by eliot waugh, no plot just 9k plus of talking and sex, quentin in makeup, set roughly in early s2 but alice is alive and married to fen, this one has more of a focus on queliot but margo is still there and important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: Eliot glances up as Margo presses a soft sponge against Quentin's newly-shaven cheek, leaving behind a barely noticeable streak of foundation. Margo's positioned Quentin to catch the natural light pouring through the study's window, and between that and how she's pinned up his hair to keep it out of his face, there's a lovely 'artist at work' vibe going on.





	a chord in every muscle (every kiss you ever had)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyrics from "Not Only Human" by Heather Nova.
> 
> This fic does need a bit of a content warning for a brief conversation about homophobia, internalized homophobia, and biphobia.

Eliot flips through the makeshift portfolio, taking the occasional note. He focuses more on elements and pieces than he does on complete outfits – thinks about _this_ cut combined with _that_ pattern, about which colors to best compliment the undertones of Q's skin, how to emphasis his looks without making him uncomfortable. Normally, Quentin doesn't like to be flashy, but if it's about letting Eliot and Margo play with him... he might be willing to go outside his comfort zone.

“Does that feel heavy?” Margo asks. Eliot glances up as Margo presses a soft sponge against Quentin's newly-shaven cheek, leaving behind a barely noticeable streak of foundation. Margo's positioned Quentin to catch the natural light pouring through the study's window, and between that and how she's pinned up his hair to keep it out of his face, there's a lovely 'artist at work' vibe going on. “Different skin types are best with different bases, so we can try another one if you don't like this one.”

“I'm not sure what to compare it to,” Quentin admits, with a shrug that gets him a glare from Margo for bumping her wrist. He doesn't look particularly repentant. “Um, I've only ever put on makeup for, like, Halloween costumes. This doesn't feel anything like that.”

“I certainly hope not,” Margo sniffs. Eliot grins, turns to the next page and lets out a low whistle.

“Oh, _hello_.” He brushes his fingers over the lovingly-drawn detailed images of a tailored male corset from three angles – he's not sure if Fillorians call them corsets, but he knows one when he sees one. “Bambi, come here; you'll love this.” Without looking up, he adds, “Not you, Q. Stay there.”

Margo bounds over, leans down to examine the page and, “Well, _fuck_. Yeah. Put that one on the 'yes' list, for damn sure. Replace the red accents with silver to match his crown and that will be... painfully hot.”

“Are you really not going to let me see it?” Quentin complains, but he doesn't get up.

“You'll see it when we have the real thing,” Eliot says, and he can't quite stop touching the paper, tracing the lines over and over. It's easy as anything to imagine it on Quentin, redefining the lines of his body, reminding him with every breath how much trust he's placed in Eliot and Margo. “You're terrible at fashion, remember?”

Quentin grumbles, but with nothing as substantial as actual words this time. Eliot forces himself to go back a few pages to show Margo one of the shirts he'd marked out and she says approvingly, “Mmm, yeah, like the guy in 'Stardust'.”

“He was hot,” Eliot agrees, from his admittedly fuzzy memories of watching the movie with Margo during a themed marathon in their first year at Brakebills. “Who was that?”

“He's- shit. Fuck. It's- I saw him in something last year,” Margo says, tapping her finger against her chin. It takes her some time to remember, but then she lights up. “Right! Yeah, he's playing the lead in that new 'Daredevil' series.” Eliot shrugs a little. “Jesus, El, I told you to watch that _months_ ago.” In fairness, Margo has told him to watch or read any number of things that he's never gotten around to actually checking out.

“I don't look anything like Charlie Cox,” Quentin interrupts, baffled and- hmm, maybe flattered. And, of course, he's seen whatever it was. He might have even watched it with Margo, depending on what she'd meant by 'last year'. “Do you- do you think I look like him?”

“You will when we put you in this shirt,” Eliot says. “And, no, you can't see it yet.”

“Then tell Margo to come back over here. I'm getting bored,” Quentin says, in such a _deliberately_ bratty tone that Eliot has to bite back a delighted smile.

And, of course, that means Margo absolutely must stay right where she is, pouring over the pages with Eliot for several minutes before she finally, with a parting kiss to Eliot's temple, bustles back over to Q, who isn't even pretending not to stare longingly.

“Did you miss me?” Margo teases him, flicking him lightly in the nose with her finger. “Poor little Q, left all by himself.” Quentin tilts his chin up, in a plea for a kiss. Q can't manage to actually _call_ either of them 'mommy' or 'daddy' during sex – he'd tried for them, but he'd only been able to keep a straight face for maybe five seconds before breaking down into helpless laughter – but he can certainly play demanding and needy well.

“I missed you _a lot._ ” Quentin's hands are still gripping the edges of his stool, where Margo had placed them back when she'd first had him sit down, so that she could do her work in peace. So instead of reaching for her, his whole body has to yearn towards her and wait impatiently. Margo steps into Quentin's space, presses her body up against him as they kiss, her hands wandering down to feel him up. After a few moments, hardly enough to satisfy their Q, she moves away again. Quentin shifts uncomfortably on the stool, letting out a frustrated huff of breath. “This crap on my face is itchy.”

“Maybe you're allergic,” Margo considers. She touches his cheek, rubs at the mark. “We'll try something else.”

Eliot spends a long while with the portfolio, finding lots of options to consider, a handful of pants and shirts that might be fine with only minor alterations, and, tentatively, a clingy skirt that flares out at the knee. He isn't sure how Quentin will feel about that suggestion, but _Eliot_ will feel like a coward if he doesn't make it, so it goes on the list.

Margo and Quentin seem to be making progress, though Q occasionally sounds sulky.

Eliot goes through his list again, matching some outfits together, and prioritizing. Like Margo, he can't wait to see Quentin in that corset, so it goes to the top of the list. He focuses in on his work, not letting Margo and Quentin's chatter distract him, and ends up with a fairly serviceable to-do list for the royal tailor. All he needs now are Q's measurements.

The next time he looks up, Quentin has his eyes closed as Margo blends careful strokes of a shimmery prismatic yellow on his eyelids. She's done his mouth already, made it wine-red and glossy, and even more kissable than usual. Eliot sits back and watches as she finishes up with steady hands and a soft, sure voice. She unpins Q's hair and lets it fall back down around his face, then does a quick sealing spell to make it all smudge-proof. “Oh, yes, honey. That works for you,” she says. “Let me grab the mirror.”

She hands a hand mirror to him and Quentin wrinkles his nose as he studies his face. Eliot does too. Margo has gone all out: foundation to smooth out his skin tone, concealer where needed, blush and bronzer to hint at color, eyeliner to define and emphasis, visible but not overwhelming eyeshadow, with the centerpiece the eye-catching glistening lipstick that makes Eliot's dick ache at the thought of seeing Quentin on his knees.

“I don't look like me.” Quentin doesn't say it with any particular inflection, staring into the mirror.

“Is that good or bad?” Eliot asks, getting up from his reading nook and going over to join Quentin and Margo. He leans over and briefly presses his finger against the dark-dark red of Q's mouth, watches Quentin blink when he sees the contrast in the mirror. “Would _you_ fuck a guy who looks like this, Q?”

Quentin glances up at Eliot, smiles ruefully and counters, “Would a guy like this fuck me?” There's something odd in his tone. Something unfamiliar that Eliot can't lock down. Then Quentin looks away, gaze flicking towards Margo and says, “This isn't how you do your makeup.”

“I've got a particular style I know works for me,” Margo says. “Just like El does. You, on the other hand, are a blank canvas. So I got to play around with colors I don't normally use.” She cups his cheek, tilts his chin up. “This brings out the hints of gold in your eyes.”

“My eyes are just- just brown,” Quentin says, dismissively, but after Margo drops her hand, he's looking into the mirror again, trying to see it. His eyes _are_ mostly a darling shade of brown, of course, but there are flickers of lighter colors hidden in the irises, and Margo has done a wonderful job coaxing them to be more visible. “You don't think I look silly? Like I'm trying to be something I'm not?”

“We create who we want to be, moment by moment,” Eliot says. Quentin frowns. “Some of us just do it more deliberately than others. Why shouldn't _this_ be you, too? The question that matters is whether or not you feel okay letting it be. And, Quentin, either answer is fine. This doesn't _have_ to be you. But it's your choice. You don't look silly to me.”

“I...” Quentin bites down on his lower lip, watches himself do it in the mirror. Lets out an unsteady breath. “You'd fuck a guy who looks like this?” And that strange note in his voice from earlier is back. His voice had gone quavery on the word 'fuck', in a way it doesn't normally. Eliot re-orders the words in his head, because it seems possible Quentin is actually asking... _if I look like this, will you fuck me?_ And, wow, that is an entire conversation he didn't realize they needed to have this soon.

“Bambi, why don't you go get something to eat?” Eliot suggests. “I need to get Q's measurements anyway. We'll catch up with you in a little while.”

“You sure?” she asks. She's picked up on Quentin's tone, too, because she looks concerned. Eliot grabs her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, nods. She hesitates for a moment, then says, “Don't take too long.”

She gives him and then Quentin each a quick buss on the cheek and heads out of the study, closing the door behind her with a click.

“A private talk?” Quentin sets down the mirror, turns and braces himself against the table, not quite meeting Eliot's gaze. “Am I in trouble?” Light-hearted, playing it off if Eliot wants to.

He doesn't.

“Q... are you upset we haven't done anal?”

The bluntness of the question startles Quentin into looking at him, eyes wide and set off so beautifully by Margo's work. “Um. _Jesus_ , El. That's-” And he laughs, but it's small and nervous. “Why would I be upset about that?”

Eliot raises an eyebrow because that _is_ , in fact, the question at hand.

“I mean- I've been-” Quentin tucks his hair behind his ears, wraps his arms around his chest. Shrugs. “I mean. You haven't even- um. Brought it up? I know you- uh. I know you like it. You've talked about it, before we- like way back before. But you haven't even mentioned it since this all started? Or- um. Am I just not- do I not...?”

Eliot steps in towards Quentin, frames Q's face with his hands. Quentin's familiar facial expressions as he frets somehow stand out even more now that all his natural lines have been smoothed out.

“I've fantasized about fucking you probably a thousand times since I first saw you,” Eliot says. Quentin's lips part and he looks- he looks so goddamn relieved and, fuck, Eliot is pissed at himself for not realizing that Q might get anxious over this. “But I'm pretty sure you haven't done it before?”

“Um. No,” Quentin admits. “Uh. The most I did with guys was just. Blowjobs and- and handjobs.” He swallows, hard, and adds, plaintive, “But- but I- I think about it. Why haven't you asked me? If I want to?”

“I was gonna work up to it slowly,” Eliot says, and wow, that sounds like such a load of horseshit when he says it out loud. And Quentin doesn't look like he believes Eliot anyway. Eliot sighs, traces his thumb over Quentin's bruise-dark lips. He's told Quentin enough of his other worries. He can trust Quentin with this too. “Okay... so, I was worried about scaring you off.”

“ _El_.” Quentin reaches up, clasps his hands around Eliot's wrists and just holds on. The corner of his mouth twitches a little, not quite a smile, and he says, gently, “You aren't going to scare me off. But maybe you can walk me through- through where your head is? What makes me different than the other guys?”

It's somewhat astonishing, even baffling, that Quentin can ask that question when the answer feels so obvious. Eliot has to look away for a while, trying to figure how to put it into words.

“It's easy to ask when it won't hurt if the guy freaks out and leaves,” Eliot says, daring a glance back at Quentin who looks – fuck, patient and kind and adoring, the way he'd looked when he'd given that sweet speech and crowned Eliot as High King. “And... fucking is nice, yeah, but it's not the be-all, end-all of sex. I didn't want you to feel like it's _expected_. What we have... Q, it means so much to me, more than any... even back at the start, you _mattered_ to me. You were... cute and funny and... the last time someone surprised me the way you did, it was Bambi. I want you to stay in my life, whatever that means.”

“El, I-” Quentin slams his mouth shut on whatever he was about to say, strokes the inside of Eliot's wrists with his thumbs. “I want that, too. And maybe I won't- maybe I won't like-” he breaths out a laugh. “Anal sex. Getting fucked. _Bottoming_. Whatever. But I'd like the chance to find out.” He leans up, kisses Eliot gentle and soft, and tugs Eliot's hands down to his waist. “So, stop acting like my butt has a 'no trespassing' sign on it.”

Eliot takes the hint, slides his hands into Quentin's pants, and flexes his fingers across Quentin's skin. He buries his face in Q's neck, half-kissing and half-biting, and squeezes Q's ass the way he's been dreaming of doing since that first fucking day on the Brakebills lawn, feels the soft _give_ under his fingertips. Quentin gasps, breathy, but doesn't object. Eliot rocks against Quentin, hard, making the table bang against the wall behind them. He slips his fingers down, presses against Q's asshole but- fuck, he needs to- he pulls his hands out of Q's pants and- and they're shaking too much to do the tuts.

Quentin stares at him, mouth half-open, and looking way too fucking much like a wet dream.

“That spell I showed you for jerking off,” Eliot says, feeling- shit, frantic and desperate. “The lube spell. Do it for me, okay?” And Quentin looks... startled still, but he listens, twisting his fingers into the tuts, and then rubbing them, wet and slippery, against Eliot's. Eliot kisses him as a thank-you, fast and clumsy, bumping their noses and clacking their teeth together.

Quentin isn't letting go of his hands. Eliot yanks again, confused, and then Quentin says, with a tenderness that makes Eliot's heart ache, “Hey. _Hey_. I'm not going anywhere, El. You can slow down. I won't disappear.” Quentin leans in for another kiss, deeper, lingering. Eliot falls into it, into Q. Quentin's mouth is slicksoft, with the lipstick that Margo put on him, and he's so warm inside. “I'm here,” Q whispers into his mouth. “I'm right here.”

He hadn't been totally bullshitting Quentin earlier. There _had been_ a timeline, of sorts, in his head, about the idea of gradually encouraging Quentin to think about- but that's destroyed now, thankfully.

This is so much better.

They kiss for- fuck, so long that Eliot loses track of himself inside Quentin's mouth. Kissing Quentin has felt natural and intoxicating right from the start, even when Eliot had barely been able to feel his own body through the booze and the heartache and the guilt.

“You are so fucking pretty. Look how pretty you are,” Eliot marvels, during a break in the kissing, running slick fingers over Quentin's lovely, flawless makeup. He almost regrets that he can't smudge it. “You have no idea how much I needed something this good in my life.”

“I have _some_ idea,” Quentin says. He nuzzles against Eliot, kissing under his ear. Eliot yanks on Q's hair, pulls his mouth back to kiss it again and again and again, anchors himself with a hand on the back of Q's neck. He doesn't rush to the gold ring this time, opens up Quentin's shirt, licks and tugs at his nipples while Quentin clutches onto Eliot's shoulders like he can't stand on his own. He nips at Quentin's biceps, curves his fingers around Q's waist. He slides his hands under Quentin again, but this time to lift him up, set him on the table so that Q can wrap his legs around Eliot as he goes back for more kisses.

“But, baby, I don't-” Eliot presses his hips against Quentin's. “I still don't want to go too fast. Fingers now, and maybe, maybe I can eat you out? But I don't want- baby, I want to fuck you for the first time with Bambi in the room, too.” Because Quentin has been _theirs_ from the very start, from when Eliot rushed back to the cottage to tell Margo all about the adorable prospective student he'd escorted to the exam, and how much he hoped the kid would pass the test. “And I really want- I'd love to see her peg you.” Eliot sucks at Quentin's collarbone, strokes down the soft hair of his stomach. “Fuck, why'd I'd start this in a room without a bed? I need you in a bed.” Lay Quentin out – on his back, he likes that better, have him hold his legs up, have-

“Do- do that invisible cushion spell,” Quentin suggests. “Or, wait, shit. I can- I can do it.”

Quentin cannot, in fact, do the 'invisible cushion' spell, as he calls it, or Jorantia's Gravity Mitigation spell, as it is actually called, with all that much reliability, because he's not always great at casting spells where he can't see the results. But Eliot, honestly, is far too busy kissing Q's jawline to argue the point. He feels Quentin steady himself and pull his hands away from Eliot, and then a few seconds later, he feels the small rush of air created by the spell, so he picks Quentin up and staggers backwards towards the sound until the back of his legs hit something soft.

It feels a little _too_ soft, but Eliot falls onto it anyway.

Instead of giving slightly like a high-quality bed, it's more like flopping into a beanbag chair, but now he's on his back and Quentin is straddling his hips and Eliot isn't going to complain about any of that. “Hey,” Eliot says, breathless, grinning up at Quentin, who is backlit by the light from the window and looks like a painting of a fucking angel or something, high-contrast and classically beautiful with his shirt half undone and his hair a disheveled, glorious mess. Renaissance painters would have sold their souls for a muse like this. Eliot reaches up, traces a finger along the plush line of Q's mouth. “How did I get so lucky?”

“I think that's my line,” Quentin says, but the implied praise makes him glow. He opens his mouth for Eliot's finger, closes his lips around it and sucks, and, fuck, it makes Eliot's cock twitch to watch. He pulls off with a slight pop, then asks, “Does the lipstick make that hotter for you?”

“It's always pretty fucking hot,” Eliot says, tapping his wet finger on Q's nose. “But, yeah, the visual contrast is a definite turn-on.” He touches near the outer corner of Quentin's eye, making him blink. “I guess it's a perversion of innocence fantasy, too, in a way.”

Quentin stares at him looking utterly unimpressed, eyebrows raised as he waits for clarification.

“Mmm, you ever see 'Rocky Horror'?” Eliot trails his fingers down Quentin's cheek and there's a slow-dawning flush of realization there. Eliot takes a moment to wonder when and where Q watched the movie, if it was alone or in a group. If it was before or after the first time he jerked off or blew another guy. “Come on, you know it can be hot.”

“Wait, so who am I in this fantasy?” Q wrinkles his nose, and it's cute and fascinating, because Eliot can actually _see_ him rummaging through his memories of the movie, just in how his face moves. “Ugh, not that boring guy. Please don't say I'm the whiny, boring one. Even at the end, he was complaining about everything.”

“Don't worry,” Eliot says. There's a certain ironic humor in Quentin complaining about not wanting to be the one who complains, but Eliot isn't going to point it out to him. “I was thinking of Janet. Susan Sarandon's character. She gets into the spirit of it all a lot more.” And wow, does _that_ bring up some interesting mental images that he tucks away to think about more later. “She gets that fun number about her sexual awakening.” He hums the melody for a few bars, then sings, “Touch me, I wanna be di- _ir_ -ty,” rubs his hands up Quentin's chest. “Definitely more of a Janet.”

“Eliot, I have the singing voice of a dying frog,” Quentin says, flatly. “You know this.”

“Frogs are actually very good singers.” Eliot twinkles up at him. “I mean, really, you're more like a sick donkey, sweetheart.” He tugs Quentin down and kisses him again, as his mouth is opening to reply. Quentin sputters but just for a moment, then melts into the kiss. Eliot thinks, ridiculously, that when he dies he wants to be buried in this feeling, Quentin draped over him, hair falling against Eliot's face, and the impossible perfection of his hot, yielding mouth.

“Perversion of innocence,” Quentin echoes, bemused, when he pulls away. He shakes his head, frowns slightly. “Is that a thing for Margo, too, or that all you?”

“You'll have to ask her,” Eliot says, archly. “It wouldn't be the same for her, anyway.” Quentin's brow furrows and he tilts his head, so Eliot explains, “Bambi isn't likely to be nursing any 'corrupt the straight boy' daydreams, after all.” After a beat, Quentin's confusion clears away and his expression falls. Eliot palms his jawline. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“Um, I- uh. I don't want to be a trophy,” Quentin says, and it takes Eliot a second to understand. He sighs, moves his hand to press his knuckles against Quentin's mouth. The lipstick _is_ pretty, but it's also becoming fairly clear that it – the idea of what it might mean to Eliot and Margo – keeps distracting Quentin.

“You _aren't_. We aren't- you know we aren't doing all this to use you to check items off a bucket list.” Eliot does a series of tuts with his left hand, and wipes his knuckles down from Quentin's lips to his chin. The makeup floats off Q's face in tiny shimmering fragments, compacts into a tiny ball that lands in Eliot's palm. Quentin blinks, reaches down and takes the makeup ball from Eliot, rolls it between his fingers. “There. That's better. It's just you and just me now. Tell me what's bothering you.”

Quentin looks younger, with the makeup gone, and uncertain in a way that is, honestly, kind of devastating. It reminds Eliot of how Quentin had been right after he'd come back from Brakebills South, when he was trying to figure out why Alice had turned him down, why she hadn't believed his feelings were real. “El, you don't really think I'm straight, right? We've never talked about it, I guess, but- but- I didn't know we needed to? I feel like sucking your dick so many times kinda disqualifies me?”

Eliot is torn, for a long moment, between the impulse to share – because a fragile part of him is certain Quentin would understand – and the deep-rooted desire to deflect away before Q sees too far behind Eliot's facade. Being charming is so much easier than being honest.

Quentin's face is heartbreaking, though, and Eliot won't be able to avoid this conversation forever. So, time to gather up his goddamn courage and power through being sincere and, god fucking help him, _emotionally vulnerable_ , the actual worst thing in the world. Maybe it'll be easier if he pretends it's a secrets spell. That he can turn into a fucking bird afterwards and escape from his own feelings.

“You grew up in Jersey, right? Suburbs?” Eliot asks, and Quentin nods warily. Eliot puts on a bright smile, as much as he can. “I grew up in a small town. Well, near a small town. In Indiana. It was not an ideal place to... to be who I am. So, yeah, Q. I actually knew _several_ guys who liked dick and still called themselves straight. And got pretty fucking mad if anyone said different.” There had been a rough couple of years, there, when he'd _been_ one of those guys.

“They hurt you?” Quentin touches Eliot's cheek, and Eliot shies away, instinctively, then forces himself to relax again.

“I had some magic by then, remember?” Eliot's fingers feel numb and tingly at the tips and he thinks he might be sweating. _Secrets spell_ , he reminds himself. He did all this with Bambi once, he can do it for Quentin. “Nothing I could consciously control yet, but it was there. When I needed it.”

“I'm sorry, El,” Quentin says, his fingers curling against Eliot's cheek. He's not sure Q realizes he's doing it. “I get- yeah. I'm not straight. I don't really think much past that, most of the time, which I guess- um. I know that means I grew up. Lucky in a lot of ways. Because I didn't need to think about it or define myself if I didn't want to.”

“I should apologize, too.” Eliot reaches up and wraps his fingers around Quentin's, trying to be comforting. “We all carry some fucked-up shit in our brains from how we grew up, but I don't want to project any of that onto you.”

“You haven't- um, I don't think you need to apologize for anything,” Quentin says. “But do you think this might be- uh, related? I mean, you've been calling me your boyfriend for a couple of weeks now, so some part of you has to know I'm not going to- not going to be like that.”

_When I was drowning, you saved me._

And he can't- he can't actually say that. He can't throw that heavy a weight on Quentin. It's not fair. But it's true. Maybe the truest thing in his life. He'd been so screwed up after what had happened with... with the person who hadn't really been Mike, ready to lose himself in liquor and drugs and danger. Then he'd woken up with a head full of fuzzy memories, Margo and Quentin kissing over him in the warm light of dawn, and he'd been thrown a lifeline. He's still fucked up sometimes, even now, but between this thing with Margo and Quentin and, surprisingly, Eliot not actually being a horrible High King... life has been getting better.

“All that- that experienced dom shit that Margo and I try to do with you,” Eliot says instead. “In some ways, I've been using it to focus on _you_ so that I can push away my fear. There's- fuck. We've joked about it a couple of times, but there really is this- this part of me that is constantly, _constantly_ telling me you're gonna wake up one day, decide you've had enough, and then you and- and Bambi will-”

“Abandon you and go off to be a- uh, a heteronormative couple back on Earth while you're stuck in Fillory? Get married and have two point five kids and a dog?”

It sounds ridiculous when Quentin says it out loud, but it always sounds so fucking true when it's the voice at the back of his head whispering it. “Yeah,” Eliot says. “Something like that.”

“Okay. Okay, from my own experience, uh. I'm not sure there's anything I can actually say to shut up that voice,” Quentin says, with an unhappy twitch to his mouth. “So, all I can do is keep- keep being here.” He gives Eliot a hopeful smile. “Um. So. Did we just completely fuck over the mood or is there still a chance you want to put your fingers in my ass?”

Eliot laughs. Tugs Quentin's hand down for a kiss. “Not here. Now that we have a second to breathe, let's go somewhere with a goddamn bed. I want to lay you out properly.” After a slight hesitation, he asks, “Do you want this to stay just with you and me right now, or do you want Bambi there? She'd be into watching, but you'd be pretty exposed. Is that something you want today?”

Quentin goes on a somewhat complicated face journey, so Eliot waits him out through the uncertainty and temptation until he seems to settle on squishing his face together sheepishly.

“Um. You think she'd mind we took the makeup off?”

“Well, I happen to know from an inside source that she thinks you're kinda cute as-is,” Eliot teases. “I think she'll be okay with it.” More seriously, he adds, “This was just a trial run to see if you liked it.”

“I didn't _hate_ it,” Quentin says, his hands moving to express his point – it takes him a moment to notice that Eliot is still holding onto one of them, letting it be moved along. “But I didn't- um. I didn't like seeing someone else in the mirror.”

“We could try just some eyeliner and lip gloss next time.” Eliot pictures it, smudges of dark around Q's eyes and a hint of extra shine on Q's mouth. Another thought pokes at him and he asks, concerned, “Q, if you want to see the clothes before I have them made, you can look at the portfolio. I was- the mystery was supposed to be something to amp up anticipation, but if you're- if it bothers you, of course you can look. We- you know when Margo and I make rules, you're always allowed to veto, right? Even if you've already said 'yes', you can take it back.”

Quentin looks slightly surprised which... okay, Eliot should have called that, too. He is so fucking _bad_ at this; with all the mistakes they make, it's a miracle that Quentin is still somehow convinced that he and Margo are sex gods, though that's less down to them, Eliot suspects, and more about Q's own past.

As he's told it to them, in bits and pieces, Quentin's list of sexual experiences has, as a whole, sounded like something out of the plotline of an X-rated slapstick comedy or maybe a farce. And while it was possibly less immediately traumatizing than Eliot's own tragi-gay upbringing, he and Margo have both noticed that far too much of Quentin's past sex life consists of encounters that he hadn't particularly wanted before they started but had gone along with anyway because he hadn't wanted to make a fuss by slamming on the brakes. And it takes more than a couple of weeks of reminding him about enthusiastic consent for that lesson to fully overwrite years of experience telling him that his desires are secondary, at best.

Eliot has had so much mindblowing sex with people he didn't even care about remembering the next day but now, when it's something- when he has someone he wants to keep around, there's a terrifying amount of actual work involved. He can't just fuck and forget, not with Q.

“You guys aren't expecting me to- um. Wear any of it out in public?” Quentin asks. Suspiciously... _no_ , cautiously. Their little Q, who loves long sleeves and hides behind his hair whenever he feels uncomfortable.

“Only with the three of us,” Eliot promises, and Quentin's dimples peek out as he smiles.

“Yeah, okay. I don't mind waiting,” Quentin says. “Like you said, it's all a test to see how I feel? And I can't really imagine how clothes look on me when they're pictures on a page.” He grabs at the collar of Eliot's shirt, smooths his fingers over the fabric. “I- uh. I like when Margo sees me- um. Exposed.” It takes Eliot a second to rewind to the earlier part of the conversation.

“Then let's go find her.”

Margo is at dinner with Alice and Fen, talking about actual Fillorian concerns, so that puts a pause on their other plans for a while. It's nice, honestly, to genuinely be friends with Alice. She's a bit of an asshole, sharp and brittle, with a caustic edge to her humor. All things Eliot approves of in his friends. And she'd taken the revelation about their relationship shockingly well, with a startled laugh, a general air of mild regret over missed opportunities, and a rueful 'well, I can't blame you for noticing how cute he is' that had endeared her to Eliot considerably. Her marriage with Fen seems to be panning out, too, which is wonderful news for the whole kingdom.

After the latest issues are addressed, Margo looks them both over, gaze lingering on Q's hair and his rumpled clothes, and asks, pointedly, “So, did you actually get Q's measurements or did you just make out for a while?” Eliot gives a helpless shrug and she rolls her eyes. “I swear, you two are useless without me.” She starts to head back to the study, but Eliot takes her by the arm to head off toward their bedroom instead, tossing off a breezy comment to Tick that they'll be retiring for the night.

“We got distracted,” Eliot admits to her. Margo reaches out with her other hand and reels Quentin in as they walk. In her heels, she's only barely shorter than Quentin, and they look so lovely and perfectly matched. That little voice in the back of his head tries to make that into a bad thing, and he tells it to shut the fuck up. “Quentin lectured me about how I've been treating him like a frightened straight boy, and I conceded the point.” Quentin laughs at that characterization of their talk, but doesn't argue.

“Ha,” Margo says, triumphantly. “I told you, El. I _told_ you.” He pats her hand, silently conceding that point as well. “You should know by now that I'm always right about everything.” She leans away from him, against Quentin, and tells Q, sugar-sweet and spilling all of Eliot's secrets, “El has been raving about that particular feature of yours since the first time he met you. 'I hope that Coldwater kid passes the test if only so that I can get a better look at his ass' were his exact words, I swear to everything holy. And then we actually get our hands on you, and it's suddenly all 'I think he needs more time to get used to the idea, Bambi!'. Pfft.”

“How much do you talk about me when I'm not there?” Quentin asks, but he sounds amused and pleased, not unhappy or anxious about it, crinkles showing at the corners of his eyes. “You need a hobby.”

“Dumpling, we always talked about you way too fucking much. You've been our hobby since you passed the damn entrance exam,” Margo says, and she hip-checks Quentin hard enough to throw off his balance and make him playfully bump back against her shoulder and, for once, not complain or pull a face about her constantly-rotating list of pet names. “Looking back, there really was nowhere it could go except us trying to bang you.”

And Quentin stops dead in his tracks and presses his whole damn body against Margo so that he can drop a kiss against her cheek and whisper something in her ear that makes her giggle. She spins around, tugging out of Eliot's grasp, and Quentin ends up in the middle, going up on his toes to place a similar kiss on the Eliot's face, too. Eliot rests his arm on Quentin's shoulders, and briefly entertains the idea of just ducking into the closest room and taking the risk of someone walking in on them. But, no. He wants the privacy and comfort of having Quentin spread out on their bed, so he tucks the fantasy away for the next time he jerks off.

Eliot locks the door once they're in the room, with a quick tut to keep it secure. Margo is interrogating Quentin on the conversation they'd had earlier, and he hears her ask about the missing makeup too, lightly enough that Quentin answers honestly, so that's all good. They're sitting on the edge of the bed while they talk, so Eliot tugs over a cushy armchair and sits facing them. They look so fucking cute together, body language mirroring each other and knees touching as they chat, Margo tilting her head coquettishly while Quentin is more awkward about it, but still shyly flirtatious.

“Quentin was telling me you think you want to hold off on the actual fucking?” Margo's hand is resting on Quentin's thigh, slowly stroking through the fabric. “Just fingers and a rimjob for right now?”

Eliot shrugs, with an affected carelessness. “Well, if he ends up begging me for more, I suppose I'd be morally obligated to give it to him.” He reaches out and places his hand on Quentin's bare ankle, showing between his shoes and the hem of his pants. “But if you've never had anything up your ass before, it's not a terrible idea to take things slowly.”

“Especially with El's huge dick involved,” Margo agrees with a smirk. Her hand slides up to press against Quentin's cock, rubs in tiny circles. Quentin's breath catches and he slumps a bit towards Margo, obviously aching to be kissed. Eliot strokes his thumb over Quentin's ankle, leans forward out of the chair to give Quentin the kiss he's begging for, his left hand fumbling down to join Margo's. He can't get his fingers around Q's dick properly with his pants still on, but he can stroke at it, find the head and press underneath the way Quentin likes. Margo's hand goes away and- he hears her moving around Quentin on the bed, tugging at him to pull him to the center.

Eliot does his best to help, reluctantly letting go and reaching under Quentin to lift him up and push him back onto the bed. He doesn't – can't – stop kissing Quentin, though, deep messy-wet kisses because this is, still, so wonderfully new and he's hungry for Quentin's mouth every fucking day.

They get Quentin undressed, which is generally always step one because Q gets so flushed and hot over being naked while they're fully-clothed, and then come the logistics. Pillow under his hips, so that he can be on his back and see their faces, like he prefers. Margo whispers to him and, blush deepening, Quentin reaches down to hold his legs up and open. Margo curls up next to Quentin, strokes his dick, which is mostly soft but jumps when she touches it, and Eliot settles himself between Quentin's legs.

It really is a fantastic view. He's had the chance to take a few looks, but now he really lets it sink in – soft and hairy inner thighs, ballsac and sweetly-tempting cock, darker wrinkled skin underneath leading to the tightly closed hole. He glances up Quentin's body, and meets Q's eyes, watching him with fascination. And, well, he knows Quentin likes to look at his hands when he casts, so Eliot makes a bit of a production out of the tuts. Quentin blinks and wiggles in surprise as the modified healing spell takes effect, cleans him out on the inside.

“Since we didn't have time to give you a shower before,” Eliot tells him and Quentin's eyes widen in understanding, maybe a hint of relief. Then Eliot does a spell that's more familiar to Q, slicking his fingers up with conjured lube. Leans down, kisses his way along Quentin's leg, and presses one finger lightly against Q's hole. “If you can, baby, relax.”

Margo is cupping Quentin's dick gently now, not jerking him off, just holding him. Quentin's eyes occasionally stray from watching Eliot's hands to checking out Margo's breasts, visible through the dip in her dress. Eliot had kicked off his shoes before getting on the bed but Margo is still every inch a queen, from the crown on her head down to her tall, deadly heels.

Quentin might not be a scared straight boy, but Eliot can feel his nerves – the trembling of his thighs, the harshness of his breath, his thundering pulse. So, he takes it slow, slicks around the outside of Quentin's asshole while he sucks kisses into Quentin's thighs. He doesn't try to push inside until he feels Q's muscles begin to loosen, his heartbeat settling. Then, smooth and sure, he breaches the entrance with just the tip of his middle finger, resting like that for a while, letting Quentin's body get used to him. And Q feels- silky and tight and _lovely_ inside, and Eliot has to lean his forehead against Quentin's leg and breathe for a second.

He pulls his finger out, goes back to petting Quentin's skin, strokes over his balls, down his perineum, skates his fingers over but not in. He risks a glance upward – Margo is kissing Quentin's neck, saying soft sweet things to him. His head has fallen back against his pillow, but Eliot can make out enough to see that he doesn't look unhappy. Okay. He presses his finger back inside, deeper this time, watching Quentin's face. Q's mouth twitches slightly, then stills again. Eliot focuses back down, crooks his finger, straightens it again. Slides it out and then leans forward to press a closed-mouth kiss against Q's twitching hole. He can hear Quentin's breathing catch, feels his hands release his legs for a moment before he catches them again.

Eliot opens his mouth and licks and, of course, because of the spells, only tastes the slick mildness of the lube at first. He kisses his way up to Quentin's balls, spends a few moments licking and sucking, then back down again, and he presses his finger against Quentin to open him up enough that he can lick inside and keep at it until he's tasting Q instead of lube.

He wants to look up, to check in, but he also wants to stay here forever, teasing his tongue against Q's quivering skin. Margo will let him know if he needs to stop; he trusts her on that, so he stays put, slips his finger into Quentin while kissing his asshole, deep and messy and forceful.

He wants... he wants so badly to make this feel amazing for Quentin and it's only- to his own surprise, only some of it is because he wants Quentin to want it again in the future. Most of his desire is immediate, a fierce burning need to please the boy who dropped into his life unexpectedly and made everything _more_ than it was before. Eliot has to take a moment, to feel that yearning settle into his bones. Quentin's hips shift, restlessly.

A second finger, then, sliding in and joining the first, pushing deeper, searching. Eliot glances up again, because he wants to see Quentin's face when he finds it. Quentin's dick is more than half-hard now, Margo's fingers caressing it so lightly that Q must barely be able to feel her. And his face- he's biting down on his lower lip, trying to lift his head to watch but he can't keep it up for long before he falls back onto the pillow. Eliot's fingers twist and brush over- _yes_ , Quentin reacts instantly, arching up onto his shoulders and breath punching out of him in shock and everything inside him tightening around Eliot's fingers.

One of Quentin's legs drops down to the bed as he reaches up and covers his face with his hand. Eliot waits, gives him time. Margo gives Q's cock a soft pat, then pulls his leg up, kisses his knee. “Brave new world,” she says sympathetically. “Probably wondering how you went your whole life without some girlfriend or boyfriend sticking something up there before, huh?”

Quentin nods, still blocking out most of his face. “Yeah. It was- um. Before that, it just kinda felt weird. Not- not bad, it was interesting, but mostly weird.” Quentin takes in a few deep breaths and his muscles begin to relax again. “But it feels- um, like it's a lot. Does he have- how much is-?”

“Two fingers.” Eliot leans his head against Q's thigh, sucks a kiss into the skin there. Quentin shakes his head, disbelievingly. “Feels like more than that?”

“Feels like a fucking zucchini or a baseball bat,” Quentin says. He shifts again, against Eliot's hand. “How the fuck is your dick supposed to fit in there?”

“Things do stretch,” Eliot says, amused. He slides his fingers over Q's prostate again, and Quentin catches his breath. It's not such a surprise this time, so he controls it better, but it's still beautiful to see how he responds. “But we aren't planning on doing that tonight anyway, remember?”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, faintly. Hips twitching. “El. _El_. Don't stop.”

“Uh-uh, little Q,” Margo says, tugging his knee up another fraction of an inch. “Remember what we talked about. If it's a 'yes', frame it in positives. Daddy likes encouragement, you know that.”

Quentin just lies there for a long moment, then he finally pulls his hand off his face and says, very clearly and distinctly, “El, move your fucking fingers again. _Please_.”

And, well, far be it from him to ignore such a passionate request. Eliot starts slow, teasing, until Quentin is squirming back against his hand, trying to shove Eliot's fingers deeper. Q's hand slips off his other leg and so Eliot pulls his fingers out – earning a soft whimper of protest – and uses a hand gesture and his telekinesis to pull Quentin's leg back up to where it should be. Quentin tries to cover his face again, but Margo tugs his hand down and presses it against the bed.

So Quentin clutches at the sheets, and he _whines_ , high and needy, when Eliot pushes his fingers back inside. His cock is hard and lonesome against his stomach, so Eliot indulges himself, leaning down to lick a firm stripe up the shaft while his fingers twist and thrust inside. Quentin doesn't have any control over his hips, but he also has no leverage, so Eliot takes advantage, sucking at the tip of Q's cock, pressing the point of his tongue against the slit.

He can taste precome in his mouth, can feel the way Q's dick shivers and shudders against his lips. He rubs firmly with his fingers, considers trying to get a third in, but he thinks- he thinks Quentin might already be close enough to coming. Better to leave him wanting more than to overreach and push too hard.

Eliot presses a tender kiss to the head of Quentin's cock. Says, “I wanna see you make a mess all over yourself. Will you do that for me, baby?”

The words wind Quentin up tighter, and it only takes a little more stroking, another handful of licks and kisses, then he's falling over the edge, striping his stomach and Eliot's chin with come. Eliot watches Quentin as he breathes heavily, his hands relaxing against the bed. Margo gently lowers his leg, presses up against his side, careful to avoid getting close enough to the spatters to get anything on her outfit.

“Okay,” Quentin says, after his breathing has settled down a little. “Jesus, El. Fuck.”

Eliot takes that as his cue to slowly slip his fingers out, then gradually releases Quentin's other leg as well. He's agonizingly hard, kinda regretting his choice of pants for today, but he pushes it away, keeps his gaze on Quentin's face.

“So, Q, thoughts?”

“Ha, none.” Quentin stares up at the ceiling. “My brain doesn't fucking _exist_ anymore.”

“We'll give you some time to recover,” Margo says, her outward shell of concern covering a shitload of amusement. She reaches down and runs her fingers up Quentin's torso, gathering a fingerful of come, and presents it to Quentin. His eyes go a little cross-eyed as he looks at her hand, but he opens his mouth obediently, sucks on her fingers when she sticks them inside.

Eliot gets up and washes his hands and face in the bathroom, swishes around and gargles some mouthwash too, while he's at it. He considers how dazed Quentin had looked afterwards, then takes his dick out of his pants and jerks off into the toilet. Washes his hands again and comes back out with a warm, wet washcloth. Margo has mostly cleaned Quentin off by now, feeding him his own come a little bit at a time, but Eliot rubs the last of the streaks off before they can start to dry. He leans in and collects a distracted, sloppy kiss from Quentin.

“You taste like mint,” Quentin complains.

“Figure you'd prefer that,” Eliot says, and he can see the moment when Quentin realizes.

“Oh. Yeah.” Then Quentin looks at them both and says, uncomfortably, “Um. I should- I should do you, too. I'm just-”

“Maybe a smidge too tired?” Margo suggests archly. “Don't worry, baby Q. One of the pluses of our situation is knowing I'll get mine again at some point, even if it isn't right now. This was about you. And that's okay.”

“My mouth would probably still work, if you want,” Quentin says, but then he yawns right after. “Shit. Sorry.”

“How about you use your mouth to wake me up tomorrow? That would be nice.” Margo pets Q's shoulder comfortingly, then pushes up from the bed. “I'll get changed. You take over cuddle-duty, El.”

Eliot settles in on Quentin's other side, stroking over his bare skin. When Margo is ready for the night, they switch again so that Eliot can change out of his day clothes. Quentin watches it all sleepily, naked and content to be fussed over.

“I've been wondering,” Quentin says while Eliot is tugging his shirt off, because sometimes he stays quiet in the afterglow and sometimes he wants to start in-depth philosophical discussions. “Should we have- um. Safewords.” Eliot and Margo exchange a look and he nods at her to take this one.

“Q. Sugarplum. Chickadee. Angelcake.” And with each pet name, she nuzzles in and kisses him somewhere – point of his chin, tip of his nose, curve of his neck – with a loud smacking sound. Quentin bats at her face, but not with enough force to make any real attempt to stop her. “Dearest. _Lamb_. We want you to be real fucking comfortable using 'no' and 'stop' and 'don't' appropriately before we get into anything fancy.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Quentin allows, reluctantly. “Do you- do you guys have one already? I mean, you must, right? If you do that thing with El.”

“We do,” she says. Shrugs. “Mine is 'scarlet'.”

“Harvest,” Eliot offers, sitting back down on the bed. “My safeword is 'harvest'.”

Quentin nods, very seriously. Hesitates, then asks, “Why does Margo need one? If she's the one in charge?”

“Humiliating someone else can hurt the person saying the words, too, if they're a good person,” Eliot says. Margo makes an exaggerated puking face when he calls her that, then reaches out for him so that she can hold his hand. “She needs a way to tap out if she feels like it's going too far but just backing off without safewording can feel like another extension of the game, if we're already deep into it. If she safewords, then I know I need to break the scene and be her best friend again.”

“So, when you- when you play like that, no _doesn't_ mean no, right? That's why you want me to wait.”

“Right,” Eliot agrees. “Usually, 'no' means 'make me'. When we're playing that game. But we make sure to check-in at the beginning, have all the rules clear before we start.”

“How do you feel, afterward?” Quentin asks. “Uh. Both of you.”

“Exhausted, usually,” Margo says immediately, drawing Q's attention, and it's a relief, giving Eliot a chance to gather his thoughts. He leans over Quentin to press a brief, grateful kiss to the top of her head. “I have to be in control every second. But as long as the scene goes well, I also feel pretty proud of myself for pulling it off.”

“Empty,” Eliot says, then adds, quickly, “In a good way. I'm able to take all that- all that bullshit from my past, focus it, and let it burn out. For as long as it lasts, anyway.”

“Okay,” Quentin says, in that way that means he needs to process on his own for a while before he talks about this again. After a pause, he looks away from them both, then back again. “Um. Anyway. I liked it. So, we know that now.”

“We do,” Eliot agrees. “You think you wanna have Bambi peg you next time? We can make sure she uses a strap-on smaller than my dick, so we can work you up to it.”

With effort, Quentin pushes himself up off the bed and kisses Margo. “Yeah,” he says, as he drops back down, and he really does look worn out. “That sounds like fun.” Then he adds, all sweet concern, “But-um. I should probably- eat you out or something. Before. In case I'm this wiped again afterwards.”

“Not gonna argue with that,” Margo says, tucking herself firmly beside Quentin and arranging him to her liking. Eliot snuggles in on Q's other side, pulling the sheet up over the three of them. “And El and I get woken up with orgasms tomorrow morning?” She sounds half-asleep already.

“Yes, High Queen Margo, ma'am,” Quentin says, amused. “As you wish.” He kisses her forehead.

“That sounds nice,” Eliot says, lightly. “You should say it again. To me, this time.”

Quentin turns his head, touches Eliot's chin gently. “You have strange kinks.”

“They're actually fairly common ones,” Eliot says, dryly.

“Yeah, whatever, High King Eliot, sir.” Quentin touches his own forehead, a mockery of a salute of some kind. “As requested, a blowjob in the morning, sir. You want me to shine your shoes, too?”

“Just shine my dick.” Eliot closes his eyes and tugs Quentin closer, feels his fingers brush against Margo. Her breathing has evened out. “That's more than enough, trust me.”

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep,” Quentin mutters.

Eliot buries his face in Quentin's hair. He wonders if Quentin's seen 'The Princess Bride'. He must have. It's just his sort of thing, right? But two weeks is a bit sudden for an 'I love you' confession, even couched in a nerdy movie reference, so he was probably just teasing Margo. Still, still. Q's been friends with them for nearly a year, now, so maybe it's not too early.

“As you wish,” Eliot says, very quietly, and he isn't sure whether or not he wants Quentin to hear him, but there isn't a reaction, so he supposes that Quentin didn't, after all. For the best, really. It _is_ much too soon for anything like that.

Still, Eliot lies awake a while longer, dreaming of impossible things.

 

**Author's Note:**

> No, they never do get around to getting Q's measurements. They also never dispelled the invisible cushion so, at some point, some poor Fillorian will probably pratfall onto it while trying to clean the study.
> 
> I repurposed Eliot's line about Fillory saving him here, because in this timeline, things start to get better for him before they get to Fillory, so while being High King still matters to him, it's not quite as important to him as it was in the tv show.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] a chord in every muscle (every kiss you ever had)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141509) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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